Wax On Wax Off!

Warning: this post may contain entirely too much information. Fun!

A few Fridays ago I had my first bikini wax in a long time. A Brazilian, to be specific. The reasons I recently turned my back on this barbaric form of follicle annihilation are many, but mostly it’s the whole torture thing. You know - the mind numbing pain? Yeah, that. It’s not on the same level as say, child birth, but I imagine it’s up there with a swift kick to the balls or a wolf attack.

Why did I venture, eyes and legs open, back to the ruthless land of pelt removal? Las Vegas. Or “Las Vag-as” as it shall be dubbed henceforth. I took a trip to the Land of Fake Tits with 7 other hairless tramps a few weekends ago to film our own version of Bridesmaids, only with more trips to the hospital and less Jon Hamm. This being my first time in L-Vag, I had many preparations to attend to before the big trip: losing 10 pounds (fail), updating my will (check), spending ridiculous amounts of my hard earned money on slut outfits (check) and ensuring that should I die over the course of the weekend, my corpse be fully removed of all evidence that I am a grown woman with p-hair (check).

Anybald, my “friend” (she’ll pay) recommended her preferred salon to me, since I couldn’t remember the name of the last place I went. Her reply to my “anyone know a good waxer?” email stated, and I quote: “Go to X. Ask for Ivy and don’t let anyone else there wax you. It’s $32.” To the untrained eye, this should seem like nothing more than a comical caveat. To those who frequently allow other women to tear fistfuls of hair out of their bodies, however, there are 3 obvious warning signs here (I was too hungover to notice at the time - damn you, me.).

1. “Ask for Ivy”: Clearly this woman is a stripper on the run, and not an aesthetician.

2. “Don’t let anyone else there wax you”: Are all the other people working there tigers? I don’t understand.

3. “It’s $32”. Most brazilies are upwards of $50. This is probably the one place you shouldn’t be trying to save money. Lesson learned.

Nevertheless, in the interest of time, proximity and most importantly TRUST (in my friend, who happens to be the most well put-together babe I know), I went to see Ivy.

Things seemed fine at first. The salon looked clean, they had the latest issue of People for me to peruse while I waited, I couldn’t hear any audible screams...Win! Ivy soon emerged from behind a white curtain and introduced herself. She was cute as a button, polite, and looked disease-free. All signs point to yes.

Shit started inching towards the fan when we went into the waxing room in the back. Ivy said something I couldn’t understand as she ushered me in and quickly left, attempting to close the sliding door (that doesn’t close) behind her. I suddenly found myself alone in the dimly lit, not so sterile looking “room” (closet), door slightly ajar, wondering what the hell was going on. Summoning all of my powers of deduction, I decided that this was probably the part where I was supposed to strip down and wait for her. Usually, you’re given clear directions by the aesthetician before she leaves the room: how naked to get, where to stand or sit, whether to cover yourself with a towel or not, how to call for help, etc. Instead, the only instructions I could find came in the form of a picture of a busty blonde in a bikini, laying on a beach, presumably with no south hair under her spandex suit, looking thrilled to be alive, with the caption “you deserve it!”. I wasn’t sure what to do with this.

Before I had too much time to think about it, Ivy was back, laughing at the fact that I was still fully dressed. “Take off clothes!” she giggled. I complied.

Deciding that communication wasn’t her forte, I took it upon myself to stop waiting for her to verbally hold my hand through the process and just climb up onto the waxing table, grit my teeth and wait for the pain. I didn’t have to wait long.

Before I could say “what the fuck are you doing to me”, Ivy’s “hands” were fast at work. I use the term “hands” cautiously since I had my eyes closed at this point and I honestly can’t rule out the possibility that she was actually yanking out clumps of my hair with her teeth. For the next 20 minutes (yes, 20), I pleaded with God to kill one of us while it felt like some kind of shark-bear practiced its clawing and gnashing skills on my box.

For the men out there who may be reading this, here’s how a normal bikini waxing goes:

1. Aesthetician introduces self (check).
2. Aesthetician leads you to waxing room (check).
3. Aesthetician leaves room so you can undress in the specific way they ask you to (fail).
4. Aesthetician knocks before coming back into room (fail).
5. Aesthetician takes a minute to make sure you are comfortable and to remind you that they are a professional and that you should probably just relax since this is their job and they don’t give a shit (fail).
6. This is fucking crucial: Aesthetician begins process of waxing on either the left or the right side, following a very clear, predictable pattern (aka right to left, front to back, top to bottom - whatever) so that every excruciating second along the way, you have a really good idea of how much longer there is to go, thus allowing you to not scream out for your mother or threaten to blow up the salon (FAIL!).
7. Aesthetician asks you if you want her to pluck the odd remaining hair(s) and waits for your consent before doing so (FAIL!!!!!).

Failing steps 3-5 is annoying, but can be overlooked as long as steps 6 and 7 happen. Failing steps 6 and 7 is like throwing you blindfolded into a crawl space full of spiders and stabbing you repeatedly with 700 knives after announcing that you will have to wait indefinitely for the results of your pregnancy test. NO. Most women could handle the blindfold, the crawl space, the knives, the spiders and even the preg-results because, well, we’re fucking women. It’s the UNKNOWN that can break even the woman with the thickest (vagina) skin.

Ivy seemed hellbent on breaking me on that blackest of Fridays. One minute she was at the top of the landing strip, the next she was inside left. Suddenly she was centre-right. Three minutes of nothing later (WTF was she doing over there in the corner, inventing a new kind of wax??) she was back and tearing a strip off my lady chode. Her pattern was schizophrenic at best. Every time I dared to open one of my eyes and look down, I was greeted with what can only be described as a dying, homeless dog. Patchy and pathetic, whimpering and shaking in the cold. I almost slapped her.

After what felt like an eternity, she tore out the final strand...or so I thought. I started to sit up, flush with pain and humiliation, when she pushed my shoulders back down and brandished a gleaming silver set of tweezers. “Just a few tweezes yes ok? good!” Before I could open my mouth to whisper “Step the fuck back” she was plucking away with her new tool, which was even more violating and merciless than the wax, which I now remembered fondly as a soft warm hug in comparison. On and on she went, pulling out 30, 40, 50 refugee hairs, while a single tear slid down the side of my face.

I don’t even really remember how or when it ended. All I know is that I finally had clothes on. I quickly threw money at her (yes - I PAID MONEY to someone for this adventure in tolerance) and ran screaming into the night.

I immediately texted my friend. The below is the exact transcript of our exchange:

Me: um... i did NOT like that wax :( :(

Friend: really?!?!? was it ivy??

Me: yes! she called you the tall girl. i’ll tell you in person. i feel like i was mauled by a beat.

Me: *bear (autocorrect, sigh).

Friend: lol! she is amazing with me.

Me: haha! not funny!

Friend: she gives me the most perfect wax every time in literally 5 mins.

Me: no. this was 20 minutes of her laughing at me through wax.

Friend: R u sure you got ivy?? I don’t think u had ivy. Did she have an accent?

Me: Yes! I made dead sure as per your terrifying instructions. Re: accent - She was Asian so... yes? She also talked about how you get pedis and manis there sometimes. Also, everyone was calling her Ivy.

Friend: hmm. Ivy has no accent...but if she said it was her... hmm.

Me: she was nice and kept calling me honey. “you ok honey?” me: “sure!” in my head: “I’ll find your children, and I’ll kill them, slowly.”

Friend: Jesus.

Me: I know.

After a day or two of licking my wounds (boyfriend’s job), I felt better and, I’ll admit, looked great (like a sexy 3 year old!). But every time I walk by that salon, I narrow my eyes and vow “never again”.

I’m looking into laser.